SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.
To you who live in ehill degree,
As map informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one ;
Methinks all climes should be alike,
From Tropic e'en to Pole Artic;
Since you have such a constitution
As no where suffers diminution.
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigour of a Plenipo.
Like mighty missioner you come
Ad partes infidelium.
A work of wondrous merit sure,
So far to go, so much to' endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where sound of Cupid never came.
Less had you done, had you
been sent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the Line-a,
Or e'en for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity,
Where love-sick ladies helpless lie,
Chapp'd, and for want of liquor, dry,
have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear:
What region of the earth's so dull,
That is not of your labours full?
Triptolemus (so sung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But, spite of all these fable-makers,
He never sow'd on Almain acres :
No, that was left, by Fate's decree,
To be perform'd and sung by thee.
Thou break'st through forms with as much ease
As the French King through articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With such as monarchs represent.
They, whom such vast fatigues attend,
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To show the world that now and then
Great ministers are mortal men.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;
In bumpers every king is crown'd;
Besides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is sunk,
That pays to make his Envoy drunk;
These Dutch delights, I mention❜d last,
Suit not, I know, your English taste;
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your Excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were—your Excellence;
For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,
His Excellence for all, but sleeping.
Now, if you tope in form, and treat,
'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder imposition,
Which is indeed the Court's petition,
That, setting worldly pomp aside,
Which poet has at front denied,
You would be pleased, in humble way,
To write a trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a degradation,
But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wise negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will say,
The Duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
His Grace of Bucks has made a Farce;
And you, whose comic wit is terse all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began;
But scribble faster, if you can:
For yet no George, to our discerning,
Has writ without a ten years' warning.
ON HER RETURN FROM SCOTLAND IN THE YEAR 1682.
WHEN factious rage to cruel exile drove
The Queen of Beauty and the Court of Love,
The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts,
And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts:
Our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd,
Like Eden's face, when banish'd Man it mourn'd.
Love was no more, when Loyalty was gone,
The great supporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after Beauty stay,
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the sun and he had lost their way.
But now the' illustrious Nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wondering Nereids, though they raised no
storm,
Foreflow'd her passage to behold her form.
Some cried A Venus;' some, 'A Thetis pass'd;' But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste. Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride, And Envy did but look on her and died. Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate, Her sight is purchased at an easy rate. Three gloomy years against this day were set, But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt: Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom, The famine pass'd, the plenty still to come. For her the weeping heavens become serene; For her the ground is clad in cheerful green; For her the nightingales are taught to sing, And Nature has for her delay'd the spring. The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays, And Love, restored, his ancient realms surveys, Recalls our beauties, and revives our plays; His waste dominions peoples once again, And from her presence dates his second reign, But awful charms on her fair forehead sit, Dispensing what she never will admit; Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam, The people's wonder, and the poet's theme. Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
No more shall vex the church and tear the state;
No more shall Faction civil discords move,
Or only discords of too tender love;
Discord, like that of music's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
Who best shall love the Duke and serve the King,
AUTHOR OF THE PARALLEL ON HIS TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH MONARCHY. 1685.
So Joseph, yet a youth, expounded well
The boding dream, and did the' event foretell;
Judged by the past, and drew the parallel.
Thus early Solomon the truth explored,
The right awarded, and the babe restored.
Thus Daniel, ere to prophecy he grew,
The perjured presbyters did first subdue,
And freed Susanna from the canting crew.
Well may our monarchy triumphant stand,
While warlike James protects both sea and land;
And, under covert of his seven-fold shield,
Thou send'st thy shafts to scour the distant field,
By law thy powerful pen has set us free;
Thou study'st that, and that may study thee,
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